


the room where the light won't find you

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: One-Shot Collections [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Apprentice!Reader, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Gen, Gross abuse of google translate, Initiate!Reader, Nightmares, One Shot Collection, Romance, Title from Everybody Wants to Rule the World, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:19:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9270968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: a collection of one-shots from ac unity.





	1. Deadlines [Arno Dorian]

**Author's Note:**

> okay that title needs to change

It feels like your life is one big rush to deadlines.

The calm music of the café, normally so relaxing and zen-like, is doing nothing to calm your panicked typing and frantic scribbling, and you’ve caught more than a few sympathetic glances thrown your way whenever you pull your gaze away from the laptop screen in front of you.

You want to cry.

How did you let this deadline creep up on you? _How_? You’re normally so good at keep to schedule, at being on time; for something like this to happen to scary and impossible.

(Which is why the exact same thing happened last month. _And_ the month before.)

You’ve lost about five pens since this morning; they roll of the surface of the table and along the floor, and you’re too busy to stop for a second to hunt for them. You bought a box of fifty like a week ago anyway, so you’ve just been replacing the ones you lose.

_And you’ve lost a lot_.

There’s no time to stop, not when the deadline is approaching so fast, and the words on your screen are becoming a blur as frustrated tears pool in your eyes.

A hand creeps into your vision, forcing your screen down until they’ve shut your laptop.

Your hands hover in the air, eyes wide and fixed on your closed laptop, and angry words are on your lips. You’re frustrated and exhausted and you really don’t have time for people to be playing practical jokes. It’s just mean, you think, to prey on a student who’s freaking out enough as it is.

“What are you doing?” you demand and your expression looks every bit like a deer caught in headlights, because you’re shocked, too shocked to do much else but stare at the man settling himself in the seat opposite, and you should be angry but really you’re amazed at the audacity of this complete stranger.

“I am taking a break,” he says, and your eyes glide across the table’s surface, across the white mugs – there are _lots_ – as he pushes a small, round plate towards you. There’s a slice of cake sitting innocently in its centre and you’d seen them when you’d arrived in the morning, frantic and desperate for some peace and quiet and solitude. It looks _delicious_. “And I think you should too.”

Your hands reach for your laptop as you shake your head, trying to find words and failing, finding it completely insane of this stranger to tell you to take a break when he doesn’t know the circumstances.

He reaches over and swiftly removes your laptop from the table, setting it in front of him. To add insult to injury, he takes the mugs on the table and sets them on top of it, in a neat little line like little porcelain soldiers.

“I can’t,” you say, desperately, and there are those damned tears again, pressing at your eyes and stressing you out even more. You try to reach for your laptop, even as he swats your hands away, because this is _no time_ to be playing games with the weirdo in the coffee shop. “Seriously, give it back!”

“You haven’t stopped since this morning, _chéri_ ,” says the stranger. His gaze drops pointedly to the cake he’s set before you. “I think you can stop for five minutes.”

_No, you really can’t_ , but this asshole is stubborn and refusing to budge, and staring at you like he knows something you don’t.

Frustrated, you say, “I’ll report you to the owner if you don’t return it.”

His lips quirk. “Good luck with that,” he says, and his nonchalance rattles you.

“I will,” you threaten, and you go so far as to get to your feet, your chair scraping along the floor. His expression doesn’t change. “ _I will_.”

“Trust me,” he says, “your complaint has been noted. Now eat your cake.”

And you’re so utterly shocked and confused that you take your seat again, watching him warily and avoiding the slice of cake. You maintain that you do not have the time to be stopping, not for anything, not for something so meagre and unimportant as making sure you’re fed and hydrated; the deadline is _days_ away, every waking moment needs to be spent ensuring that the work you submit is some of your best.

“I’m not hungry,” you say. “Now can you leave me alone? I really need to –“

“You haven’t eaten anything since arriving here at ten o’clock this morning,” says the man, “and every mug I’ve put in front of you has been ignored.”

Your eyes dart towards the mugs sitting on your laptop, at the liquid sitting inside them. Surprised, your eyes meet his.

“Those were mine?” you ask incredulously, unnecessarily. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Luckily for you, _chéri_ ,” he says, “you have made a friend in the owner of this fine establishment.”

_What_?

Your surprise must show on your face, and your confusion. You start to reach for your bag, for the money you know you’ve kept there on the off chance that you actually stopped long enough to order something.

“No, _chéri_ ,” he says, and he reaches over the table to stop your hands as you fumble for money. “Please. It’s really no trouble.” He gestures towards the plate. “Now eat your cake.”

“But…”

You don’t even know this man’s name; you don’t even know the owner of the café - how can he possibly still be giving you so much for free when it all seems to be going to waste?

It’s all far too confusing for you to think about, so you grab the fork on the plate and start eating the cake. The sponge hitting your tongue reminds you quite suddenly of the benefits of remembering to eat, and you realise that you’re absolutely _starving_ and this cake is _delicious_.

You clear the plate, even the crumbs, and when you look up the stranger is pushing a mug across the table at you, watching your face closely, expectantly, and you take it without complaint. He’s right, you know now, starving yourself and refusing to take a break isn’t helping you at all.

“Thank you,” you murmur demurely and you can’t look at him, too embarrassed that a complete stranger cared more about you than your own family seem to have lately. You’re embarrassed that you made such a fuss too, because he only had your best interests at heart – and already that makes him endearing to you.

You hold out your hand, introducing yourself at last, shyly, and the hand that takes yours is warm like his smile.

“Arno,” he says, and you think you should know the name; you’re sure you’ve heard it somewhere. “Arno Dorian.”

You return his smile as you release his hand, searching your brain for conversation starters and coming up empty. You’ve never been good at this; what you’re good at, apparently, is working so hard you forget about your basic body needs.

“So you know the owner?” you ask hesitantly, taking a cautious sip from the mug in your hands. Cinnamon, you think you can taste, and spiced apples.

“ _Oui_ ,” returns Arno, and there’s a cheeky smirk on his lips. “In a sense.”

There seems to be more to it than that because the smirk lingers on his lips even as he takes another drink. He diverts the conversation to your studies; what’s your major, what do you want to do? It’s a relief to be talking about you, you think, even after all the stress you’re feeling, because talking about it reminds you why you’re studying it at all; talking about it gives voice to your frantic and frazzled thoughts; talking about it _helps_.

When at last Arno hands you back your laptop, you’re much calmer, much more focussed, and you know exactly what it is you want to say.

He starts to gather the still full mugs from before as you open your laptop, as you’re met with the same screen you’ve been staring at all morning and all afternoon, and the idea of him returning with those untouched drinks, those freebies from the owner who you’re still sure you don’t know, is unfathomable.

“Please,” you try to insist, reaching again for your bag, for money. “I don’t want you to get in any trouble over this.”

“Really, _chéri_ ,” says Arno, with a quirk of his lips. “It’s no problem.”

“But –“

You’re silenced by a stern but playful glower and in a feat of incredibility, Arno manages to juggle the cups of coffee in his hands and make his way back to the small kitchen behind the counter. You watch him go, feeling less motivated than before to get back to work – taking a break does that, that’s why you were so reluctant to do so in the first bloody place – and you’re not sure why you’re so disappointed when he doesn’t come back.

You manage to get through a decent chunk of work after Arno’s departure and you don’t see the man at all for the rest of the afternoon. You think this might be the perfect opportunity – you can pay for those drinks without him knowing and he won’t get in trouble.

It’s fool-proof, you think gleefully, making your way to the counter.

There’s a woman there, watching you carefully and knowingly, and you can’t help but feel like she knows exactly what you’re up to. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, making her appear stern, but when she sees you there she smiles softly and you don’t feel quite so nervous.

“Ah, yes,” you start unsurely. “This is going to sound odd but I need to pay for five coffees…”

“He mentioned you might try this,” says the woman and your heart skips a beat.

“Pardon?”

“ _Monsieur_ Dorian,” says the woman and her soft smile turns knowing.

“Please, can we just not tell him?” you try, because the idea that Arno might get in trouble is unthinkable. “I really don’t want him to get in trouble-“

“I assure you,” says the woman, “that is not possible.”

You stare at her, utterly confused by how convinced she sounds of this, the way she says it as statement of fact, and she chuckles lightly. Embarrassed and feeling like you’ve missed something _very_ important, your cheeks flush.

“What do you mean?” you brave asking, hoping to satiate your curiosity and prevent yourself from seeming like a fool in the future.

“My dear,” she says, “ _Monsieur_ Dorian owns the _Café Théâtre._ ”


	2. Petite Souris [Arno Dorian]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You smile softly and clear your throat. “My hero,” you quip, “whatever would I do without you?”_

When you wake up in his bed, he’s gone.

His side of the bed is cold and you’re grateful that he didn’t carry you to your own room after you evidently fell asleep in his warm space. You’d been exhausted and craving the company and he’d been writing to someone, hunched over at his desk and scribbling furiously as you’d read quietly, curled up on the soft armchair by the fireplace and with a throw tucked around your shoulders.

You don’t remember falling asleep; you remember feeling drowsy and your eyelids drooping, you remember snuggling further into the cushion at your head (that you didn’t remember being there) and you remember thinking that you’d have to get up and go back to your own room soon. You hadn’t been keen to go; you told yourself you’d read another chapter,  _just one more,_  and you can’t remember anything after that.

You sit up slowly, pushing the covers back from your body as you do. He’s nowhere in sight; the balcony doors are closed and the fire is out and there’s a slight chill in the room. Sunlight beams in through the windows and you slowly start to gather your things, padding quietly along the floor and aiming to make a quick getaway before Arno comes back.

Your book is on his desk, the page you had been on dog-eared – and isn’t Arno going to get a chewing out for _that_ – and the throw and pillow you have been curled up with last night lie innocently on the armchair by the dull fireplace. You wish you could have more nights like that with him; more often than not, he’s away on a mission, scouring the streets of Paris, a ghost in the shadows, hunting.

You shouldn’t have stayed, you think, clutching your book in your hands. He should have taken you back to your room. You inconvenienced him; is that why he’s not here now?

You stifle a groan behind your hand and leave the room, closing the door softly behind you.

There are voices at the end of the hallway, loud and growing louder as they approach, and you clutch your book tighter to your chest and duck your head, disappearing into your room before they can see you and before they can see where you have emerged from.

You’re not ashamed, not at all, but the idea of explaining yourself to anyone but Madame Gouze and Augustin is unbearable.

Your room is cold and goose bumps break out over your flesh as you step slowly into your small space. You open the curtains and let in the morning light and your eyes rake over your room; the made bed in the corner and the paintings on the walls, your own small armchair by the fire. It’s lumpy and uncomfortable but you’d rather suffer in silence than face asking Madame Gouze or Arno for a new one. Perhaps that is why whenever you read in your room, you’d rather sit on the floor than your armchair.

Arno’s room is just cosier, despite being larger, and his armchair comfier. His bed is larger and warmer, his pillows lush and soft, and something about his presence is soothing. He’s the most dangerous person you know but you’ve never felt safer when you’re with him.

You throw yourself onto the bed uncaringly, book abandoned on the table by the armchair. You shouldn’t be sleepy, not when you’ve just woken up, but when you drift off to sleep again you don’t complain.

* * *

It’s after midday when you wake again, yawning sleepily and immediately realising you’re not alone.

Arno sits in your armchair watching you idly, a gentle and amused smile on his face and your book in his lap.

“I did wonder if you were going to grace me with your presence today,” he comments and then, frowning, “How can you sit on this thing?”

“Usually I sit on the floor,” you say before you can think, still lazing in the afterglow of sleep. Arno blinks in surprise.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he tells you instantly, and you regret opening your mouth.

“Really it’s fine, Arno,” you try, “you don’t have to-“

“I’m getting you a new one,” he responds and he leaves no room for argument. “But you know, _chéri_ , if you wanted to go back to sleep, you could have stayed in my bed.”

His words bring a flush to your cheeks and excuses are stuck on your lips; the best you can do is stammer, trying to get out the words but failing miserably. You hadn’t expected to come back to your room and go back to sleep – you’d wanted to get up and grab some breakfast – but it appears that now you’ve missed breakfast entirely and you’re starving.

There’s an amused grin on his face as he gets to his feet. “I’ll have the chef whip you up something to eat,” he says, “but I’m not bringing it up to you.”

“What?” you ask, the beginnings of a timid joke, “Here was me thinking I had you at my beck and call.”

“You _do_ ,” Arno returns, both seriously and not at once.

Your cheeks burn and you’re quick to get to your feet and change as soon as the door swings closed behind him.

* * *

The café is bustling with activity when you finally emerge from your small space but Arno is nowhere to be found.

Instead, you run nearly headfirst into a group of assassins, loitering in the hallway and muttering amongst themselves, heavily armed and, it seems, waiting on Arno. You can hear them mumbling his name, grumbling about being made to wait, and when they see you at the foot of the stairs, you know immediately that you’re the cause of this delay. Your hands shake as their eyes fix on you and not too kindly either.

You should say _bonjour_ but the words won’t come and your hands are shaking. You try to slip quietly past them, try to bring as little attention to yourself as possible, but when a hand whips out and blocks your path, it’s all you can do not to shriek in fright.

He’s a tall man, with a dark beard and arms like tree trunks, but he’s the only one sneering at you. The rest now seem uncomfortable with the direction things have taken, looking anywhere but at the two of you, and oh, what you wouldn’t give to be able to look after yourself. Perhaps you should ask Arno to start teaching you some self-defence, to prevent this from happening again.

(But, then, would you have the confidence to use whatever he teaches you?)

The man’s grin is lecherous and terrifying, and he towers over you, intimidating. You wonder if the men he’s with consider him a friend while all you can think of him is an enemy, standing in your path and preventing you from reaching Arno.

“Um…” you voice is quiet. “Can I…”

“Hm?” he asks, and there’s amusement and mocking in his voice. “I can’t hear you, _petite souris_. Speak up!”

You should just go round him, you think, through the café and to the kitchen that way, but you’re too stunned to move, staring at this hulk of a man and wondering how someone can be so _cruel_. Assassins are supposed to defend the weak, aren’t they? That’s what Arno does – he wants justice and protection. Why are these men so different?

A voice barks a name that you don’t remember after at all, cracking through the air like a whip, and the man steps away from you, sheepish and embarrassed, while the men that had chuckled and muttered stand silently and stare at their boots. There’s a glower on Arno’s face and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides as he storms towards the small group you stand in the middle of.

“What’s this?” he asks angrily and part of you thinks he already knows the answer.

The large man who before had seemed so intimidating only looks sheepish now. “We were only teasing, _monsieur_ ,” he says.

“Don’t,” Arno snaps. Then, angrier, “I’m sure you have somewhere you all need to be.”

They scatter instantly, rushing for the door to the courtyard and stumbling over each other in their haste to leave. Arno takes your hand, stilling their shake, and apologies are already leaving your mouth before he can say anything.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, _chéri_ ,” he says softly, “those brutes are the ones who should be apologising.” He brushes your hair from your face gently and then leads you to the kitchen.

“They seem quite terrified of you,” you muse quietly as Arno gestures towards an empty seat, silently bidding you to take it. He’s silent for a long while, considering, and he doesn’t speak until a plate of food is set in front of you. You hadn’t realised how hungry you actually are so when Arno finally speaks, your mouth is full and your shocked expression looks every bit like a stuffed hamster.

“I _may_ have already threatened them,” he says, leaning on the table, “in regards to how they should treat you.” He sighs angrily and under his breath adds, “Though they seem to have ignored my _advice_.”

That explains his rush to your defence you think, and his actions in general. If the men out there had already been spoken to yet had _chosen_ even still to make you feel as uncomfortable as possible, it’s no wonder that Arno reacted the way he did.

You smile softly and clear your throat. “My hero,” you quip, “whatever would I do without you?”

Arno grins smugly. “Suffer in silence?” He’s not wrong and he knows it because he adds, “Madame Gouze is making preparations to remove that awful piece of _furniture_ from your room.”

“You don’t have to _do_ that, Arno,” you mutter, an echo of words you’d said earlier, and he silences you by pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“I _want_ to,” he says. “Let me see you treated _right_.”

You don’t argue.


	3. Choice [Élise de la Serre]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’m surprised you haven’t killed him yet,” she comments offhandedly, still wearing that amused smirk that she knows, she must know, makes her more beautiful that she already is._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“I keep trying,” you quip, with a dramatic sigh, “but nobody lets me get very far.”_

For as long as you can remember, your family has been loyal to François de la Serre, and his daughter Élise; the loyalty has always been unwavering and solid, and you know yourself that you’d follow them anywhere if they only said the word.

But loyalty to her does not include loyalty to her crazy, _hella_ good-looking assassin boyfriend.

You’re as wary of him as he is of you, of that you have no doubt, but he’s learned that he can’t order you around, so that’s a plus. It really is a shame that he dodged the knife you threw at him though.

You will maintain that if he hadn’t moved (your aim was true, it _always is_ ), then everything would be hunky-dory, a-okay, and Arno Dorian would be dead.

It really sucks that he’s an assassin and he’s been trained to watch out for attacks like that.

You give him a nonchalant wave when he sees you, leaning against the wall, and his wariness has a smirk crossing your lips, arrogant and proud.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” you sing, and then, with a roll of your eyes, “I’m not here for you.”

Élise places a hand delicately on his arm and murmurs something to him. Between anyone else, you’d think the action sweet, but jealousy pricks at you and you grit your teeth and glower at the wall opposite. Arno’s words are insulting – _please_ , you want to scoff, _as if I’d hurt the one I’m sworn to protect_. _Imbécile_. – but eventually he relents, turning away from Élise cautiously and shooting you a warning glower.

“Don’t worry,” you call to his back, “I’ll hide the body _extremely_ well.”

Élise’s lips are quirked upwards in amusement. “You shouldn’t tease him so,” she scolds lightly.

You shrug, unconcerned. “He’s a grown man.”

She sees right through you, like she always does. “Jealousy does not become you, _mon ami_.”

“Pfft.” It’s useless to pretend, of course it is, but that doesn’t stop the words from spilling forth from your lips. “Jealous? Of him? _Pfft_.”

She crosses the path to stand by your side, joining you where you lean against the wall.

“I’m surprised you haven’t killed him yet,” she comments offhandedly, still wearing that amused smirk that she _knows_ , she _must_ know, makes her more beautiful that she already is.

“I keep trying,” you quip, with a dramatic sigh, “but nobody lets me get very far.”

Élise doesn’t wait for you to ask, so used to your showing up that she immediately starts to fill you in on how far she’s gotten in her vengeance quest. You nod and hum your approval at the right intervals, but you’re unimpressed and you know it shows.

When she pauses to breathe, you mutter, “I don’t know, _mon amie_.” The words leave a bitter taste in the mouth; what you wouldn’t give to be _more_ than that. “An Assassin working with a Templar. I don’t like it.”

“He’s not an Assassin,” Élise says, and they’re words you’ve heard a hundred times over yet still can’t believe, “He’s _Arno_.”

“You say his name like it’s supposed to mean something,” you deadpan. “They’re all the same.”

No amount of convincing on your part will convince you that this Assassin can be trusted, it doesn’t matter how many times she tries. You won’t stop trying to kill him, not for anything, because you don’t believe that he won’t try to get in the way of her vengeance.

He’ll try to stop her, of this you’re fairly certain, and that’s why you can’t understand why she’s still with him.

Élise hisses your name in that frustrated tone you’re getting used to hearing; every time you bring up Arno, every time you mention your distrust, she changes, grows irritated, and you hate it. She’s different with him and you start to think you’re siding with the wrong person.

Your friends in the Order haven’t killed you yet out of some misguided loyalty – the same loyalty, you think now, that’s keeping you by Élise’s side. Maybe it’s not too late, you think, because you’re tired and she won’t listen to reason. Germain is still recruiting from the ashes of François de la Serre’s Order and loyalty only gets you so far, apparently.

“So what do you think?” Élise asks but you haven’t been listening.

You sigh. “I think working with the Assassins is the stupidest idea you’ve had, _mon amie_.”

“I’m not working with the _assassins_ ,” she fires back, and this is even more familiar ground, “I’m working with _Arno_.”

“And his resources come from the assassins. Ergo, you’re working with the assassins.”

“You’re insufferable,” she snaps, and it has none of the playful tone you’re used to hearing.

“You’re stubborn,” you retort, hackles rising, and it’s all words you’ve heard before, said before, and it always ends the same way. You relent, she leaves with Arno, you fulfil whatever request she’s left you with, and you get left behind again.

You’ve had enough.

“I don’t understand,” you finally say, annoyed. “You’re doing all these things with him, _mon amie_ , yet you’re no closer to avenging your father and taking control of the Order. Why is that?”

“You know why,” she says softly, carefully. “My allies within the Order are dead.”

“I’m not. I’m still here.”

 _But I won’t be for long_ , you think, _not unless you give me a reason to stay_.

“I know,” she agrees softly, “and that’s why I have to be careful. I can’t lose you as well.”

 _You already have_ , you nearly say, because there’s only so much pain you can suffer at her hands, knowingly or not. There’s only so much anyone can take before they finally snap, and you’re close to breaking point.

“We’ve always made a good team, haven’t we?” you muster the courage to ask, and you risk meeting her eyes, trying to appear confident and carefree, like she expects.

“Of course we have, _mon ami_ ,” she says quickly.

“Right,” you reply. “So why can’t you and I go after Germain? We could kill him, the two of us. None of this faffing around.”

“It’s not that simple,” she says, but they’re Arno’s words, you realise, and it’s enough to have you rolling your eyes and turning your back on her.

“Fine,” you say, all pretences gone, your patience worn thin. “ _Fine_.”

“ _Mon ami_ ,” Élise tries, and you feel the brush of her fingers against your arm as she reaches for you, trying to stop you. Arno rounds the corner, never far away, and you see his eyes watching the scene carefully.

You give him a cheeky salute. “She’s all yours,” you call to him, ignoring Élise’s hurt look. You swallow the lump in your throat and tell her, “Do your own dirty work from now on, _oui_?”

It’s a little harsher than necessary but you don’t have time to think about that, not now. She’s made her choice, after all, and now it’s time for you to makes yours.


	4. Night Terrors [Arno Dorian]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You don’t turn at first, sure you’ve imagined his voice. You can still hear it, shouting for you, screaming, and you draw your arms around yourself for comfort and warmth, suddenly feeling very cold._

It starts small; a shiver here and there, a jolt out of a restless sleep that has you gasping and staring wide-eyed at the blankets while you struggle to catch your breath.

It escalates after the first night until you’re waking three or four times from sleep that brings little comfort in the morning. It worsens, more and more every night, until you’re dreading sleeping at all.

You never remember the ins and outs of the dreams – _nightmares_ , you correct tiredly – only that each one has something to do with Arno. Something _bad_ happens to him, every night, every time you fall asleep, until it’s all you can picture every time you close your eyes.

And _god_ , you’re so tired.

The Café Théâtre is quiet this early in the morning and it’s so strange that you can hardly believe it. You’re used to it bustling with activity under its new ownership, used to Madame Gouze being in the corner booth, conducting her business, used to the actors on the stage performing another of their plays.

Instead it is silent and unnerving.

There’s a thick fog clouding the streets of Paris when you force yourself to your feet and to the window, brushing aside the thin curtain to peer outside. The streets are just as empty as the café and it has you doubting just how early you’ve awoken.

Another nightmare had pulled you screaming from sleep, clawing at your throat and terrified, and your room was so dark and quiet that you had ached for some semblance of normality, some noise to deafen the silence. Instead here you stand in yet more silence, watching the early morning sun dawn on the rooftops of Paris.

“ _Chéri_? Are you alright?”

You don’t turn at first, sure you’ve imagined his voice. You can still hear it, shouting for you, _screaming_ , and you draw your arms around yourself for comfort and warmth, suddenly feeling very cold.

“It’s a little early for you,” he comments lightly and you can hear his footsteps on the carpet – _brand new_ , you note, _Madame Gouze will be very happy_ – and they’re as light as his voice. “Or have you yet to actually sleep?”

You _wish_ that were the case.

His hand grazes your elbow, a gentle and encouraging touch that has the opposite of the desired effect. You flinch, not quite awake but not quite asleep and in your tired and distraught state, tears sting at your eyes.

“C _héri_?”

He’s drawn down his hood and he’s watching you with familiar and comforting dark eyes that dance over your face, taking in the dark circles around your eyes and the tears that blur your vision. You hastily wipe at your eyes and fix your gaze to the lapels of his coat.

“’m fine,” you mutter, but your voice must give away how tired you are because he’s urging you towards the seat you’ve not long vacated and disappearing towards the kitchen for who knows what. “’m fine.”

He returns with a mug of some kind of warm drink and sets it on the table before you. You reach for the mug, watching the steam rising from the contents, dancing and swirling in the air before you, but all you can bring yourself to do is hold the mug gently in your hands.

Arno is studying you closely, saying nothing at all, and you drop your gaze to the table, to the scratch marks that litter its surface. Obviously he hasn’t gotten round to replacing them just yet.

“What troubles you,  _chéri_?” he asks softly and then, surprising you but also _not_ , “Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

And that’s all it takes for you to completely lose any ounce of self-control you’ve managed to maintain in his presence. You close your eyes as the first of your tears start to flow, biting your lip to prevent any sobs but being unable to stop your shoulders from shaking as you duck your head.

Arno makes a startled sound that you’d find funny in any other situation and he’s out of his seat and by your side in an instant, taking your hands and sliding the mug away in favour of his own warmth. His gloved hands wipe away your tears, shushing you gently as the first of your broken sobs escapes your lips, and then he’s drawing you towards him for an embrace that’s warm and comforting and everything you’ve needed.

“Oh,  _chéri_ ,” he murmurs, and his hand rubs circles on your back as he rests his chin atop your head. “Let’s get you back to bed,  _oui_?”

He leaves the mug on the table and helps you to your feet but it’s clear that it will be a challenge to get you up those stairs and to the small space you occupy in this massive café. Arno sweeps your feet from under you and carries you easily, hardly missing a step, and you’re so tired you can hardly think to be offended as you usually would.

You’re so tired you hardly notice when he doesn’t turn down the long hallway that leads to your room and instead takes the turn to the lone door at the other end. You’re slumped in his arms, exhausted, and your head rests on his shoulder.

He pushes open the lone door with his foot and side-steps through as it swings open, shushing you gently as you start to sniffle again, dreading the very idea of even trying to sleep. Closing your eyes seems like a daunting task in itself and you bury your face in Arno’s neck, hating the tears that sting at your eyes once more, hating the weakness you feel.

You’re no assassin, not like Arno, and you’ve very little skill with a blade – though you’d like to learn, just to defend yourself should the need arise. You believe Arno’s assurances that you’re safe and he’s shown you the hidden doorway to the Sanctuary in case the café was to be attacked – _it won’t be_ , he always insists, but ever since Elise, he’s always so _cautious_ – but sometimes you think it wouldn’t be enough.

What if you’re alone in the café when it happens? Defenceless? What if Arno was to try and help and you hindered him because you’ve no training? What if Arno was to _die_ -?

These erratic thoughts are the product of sleep deprivation, some part of your weary and tired mind knows this, but it doesn’t make them any less terrifying.

“Madame Gouze won’t be happy,” you mutter, as Arno sets you gently on the bed in the corner. You recognise the room now and it only makes you feel so much worse. You shouldn’t need to be here; you shouldn’t need this comfort. You should be able to hold yourself together well enough by now. You might have managed to sort yourself out if Arno hadn’t walked in when he had, after all.

(Some part of you, hidden deep, deep down and surviving suffocation, knows that this isn’t the case.)

“Why’s that?” he returns easily, and your drooping eyes watch him as he starts to remove his weapons, opening belts and unclipping straps, and setting them on the dresser by the door. He removes his gauntlets last, the hidden and phantom blades, and he sets them down more gently than the other weapons, delicately.

You forget what you were saying and you forget that he’s asked you for an explanation until he’s saying your name and stepping towards you, tilting your face up with his thumb and forefinger under your chin.

“ _Chéri,_ ” he says again, encouragingly, “what troubles you?”

You shake your head, removing your chin from his grasp. You don’t miss the concern that flitters across his face nor the fleeting disappointment as you shrink into yourself.

 _What is he thinking?_ You wonder. _Are his thoughts anything like mine_?

“You left that mug on the table,” you murmur to fill the silence, to distract yourself from the mass of troubled thoughts still dancing around your mind.

“I own the café,” Arno reminds you amusedly. “I think I can leave a mug on a table every now and again.”

“That kind of talking earns a man a reputation,” you comment lightly, and for a moment you can’t remember why you’re here at all, why Arno’s so concerned. You can almost forget the dark circles under your eyes, the weighty feeling to your limbs and your slumped posture as you sit on his unmade bed.

“It’s just a mug,” says Arno nonchalantly but you can see the trepidation behind his indifference.

“I’ll tell Madame Gouze you said that,” you threaten light-heartedly, just to get a rise, and it works.

Arno may own the café, you think cheerfully, but Madame Gouze manages it, and the slightest hiccup in her schedule induces a fury unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

“You wouldn’t,” Arno returns and the uncertainty in his voice startles a laugh from you that surprises him. He removes his jacket and sets it down and then joins you where you sit on the edge of his bed, close enough to touch but refraining from doing so.

You huff a laugh, words on the tip of your tongue that are stuck in your throat, and it all happens so suddenly you’re not even sure how it does. One second there’s a smile on your lips, small and barely there but there all the same, and the next you’re in tears, a hand at your mouth and sobs wracking your body.

Arno murmurs your name gently and with equally gentle hands he guides you into the bed. You settle against his chest, crying into his shirt, soiling it with your tears. He switches out your name with “ _chéri,_ ” the endearment you’re so used to, and pecks kisses to every bit of you he can reach.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he murmurs and at first you think you’ve imagined hearing him speaking, his voice is still so soft. “But if you want to, I’m right here.”

You don’t think you can stomach talking about it yet – you can still hear the screams, _his screams_ , can still feel your hands reaching for him and coming up empty – but you appreciate the offer and it serves its purpose. Your tears are stemmed, at least enough for you to start dozing again, and you clutch tighter to Arno like a lifeline. You’re so tired and anxious and the mere thought of removing yourself from Arno’s arms and returning to your room seems to exhaust you further.

Your body slumps and Arno doesn’t appear surprised in the slightest. You should ask him to help you back to your room, tell him that you don’t mean to intrude on his small sanctuary in the café, but he seems just as content as you to remain put, if not more. He seems to pull you closer, hold you tighter, and it’s so comforting that you’re relaxing, closing your eyes and burying your face in Arno’s shirt and not even worrying that you think you shouldn’t be here.

Arno makes a contented hum, as if reading your thoughts, and with his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back, you start to drift off, dreading your night terrors but confident that with Arno by your side, everything will be alright.

And if Arno appears in your dreams, a vision in blue and wielding his cutlass as expertly as you remember, then you think you’ll have to start making this a nightly occurrence.

You make a contented hum of your own.

 _Yes. Everything will be alright_.


	5. Trick [Arno Dorian]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The whole point of a reputation is that one doesn’t have to pay attention to it,” you say waspishly. “You generally tend to hear about it regardless of whether or not you go asking.”_

He’s been watching since you walked into the café, you’re sure of it, and it’s difficult to concentrate when you’re wondering if he’s planning your death.

Out of the corner of your eye you’ve been able to slyly examine him; dark hair and brows, a scar along his cheek, navy pullover and a laptop open in front of him. Like you, he has books dotted on the table surface around him, and an empty plate and mug next to him. But whatever he was supposed to be doing before you walked in seems to have been forgotten.

 _Jeez_ , you _know_ his face, you’re sure you do, but you can’t place his name. Maybe if you could slyly sneak a picture…

You finish up your cake, brought to you by a waiter fifteen minutes ago but that you’d told yourself you wouldn’t eat until you’d finished typing up your assignment, and resolve to try and not think about him. You will ignore those dark eyes that seem to follow your every move; you will ignore the smirk on his lips and the thoughtful cock of his head.

 _Jesus_ , what is his _name_?

“Excuse me,” says a voice at your table; a waitress. She’s pretty, with dark hair pinned at the crown of her head. She sets a saucer and teacup on the table and removes your empty one.

“I didn’t –“

“From the young man in the corner,” she says, with a wink that you imagine is supposed to be sly but instead only makes you pity her.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Well, thank you.”

“Not me you should be thanking, love.”

You’re aware of that but if he thinks you’re going to approach _him_ , he has another thing coming. Instead you catch his eye and smile as politely as possible and – you regret the action in hindsight, you _always_ do – you give him a thumbs up. You still can’t remember his bloody _name_ so there’s no way you’re going over there just to embarrass yourself.

Oh, _no_ , he’s just going to come to you instead.

You think he’s leaving at first – perhaps he finally got the hint that you’re busy and _not interested_ – but then he plops into the seat across from you. He’s even more beautiful up close, the beginnings of stubble gracing his jaw.

“ _Bonjour,_ ” he greets and _that_ narrows it down.

“Mr Dorian,” you return quietly, your eyes never leaving your laptop screen. Maybe you can convince him that you’re busy? Maybe he’ll just leave?

“Mr Dorian was my father,” he says and you roll your eyes – _so cheesy, ugh_. “Call me Arno.”

“No thanks,” you say, still typing. Is he aware that you have a deadline for this assignment? Perhaps telling him would be a big enough hint. “You know, I’m really –“

“Busy,” he finishes for you. “ _Oui_ , I know. You haven’t stopped working since you got here.”

“Do you make a habit of watching every woman that comes in here?” you demand lightly, lifting your eyes from your screen briefly to his – his eyes are dark like chocolate and alight with mirth. You quickly avert your eyes.

“Only the pretty ones,” he says.

“Oh, _please_ ,” you scoff. “I’m sure you use that line on all of them as well.”

“Do I have a reputation?” Arno asks. He leans forward in his chair and peers at you; you’re so tempted to close your laptop and _talk_ to him, so tempted to flirt back. “Do you pay _attention_ to my reputation?”

“The whole point of a reputation is that one doesn’t _have_ to pay attention to it,” you say waspishly. “You generally tend to hear about it regardless of whether or not you go asking.”

“So you’ve asked?”

You huff in embarrassment, your cheeks flushing pink. “ _No_. I haven’t asked.” But you have girlfriends who think he’s the best thing since sliced bread and who share classes with him; he’s _French_ , one of them had told you excitedly. _Isn’t that fab_?

“Is there anything in particular I can help you with…?”

Arno shakes his head, completely at ease while you just really want to be left alone. He shrugs and says, “I’ve seen you around campus and you seemed lonely over here -“

“Not lonely,” you cut in, “just _busy_.”

“- and I thought I might come over and keep you company.” He doesn’t seem to have heard your _hint_ at all, and isn’t making any moves to leave you in peace. “I also noticed that you’d finished your tea and thought you might like a refill.”

That gives you pause. You ask cautiously, “No hidden agendas behind the tea?”

He shrugs. “Not unless you want there to be.”

 _That_ brings a genuine smile to your face and a sincere, “thank you then,” from your lips. He inclines his head politely, almost as if he’s embarrassed to receive your words – _crazy_ , you think, considering the brashness that seemed to have possessed him when he came to your table – but it’s the first hint of _realness_ you’ve seen in him since this encounter began.

He starts to ask you about your assignment, about your classes and teachers, and then about your friends and family.

Finally, slightly aggravated and realising that you haven’t written another line in nearly _ten_ minutes, you say, “I _really_ don’t have time to be chatting…”

“You’re right,” Arno says, leaning back in his chair again and raising his hands palms up. “Of course you’re right. Perhaps we could talk more over dinner?”

“I thought we’d already established that I was wasn’t –“

“You never explicitly _said_ , _chéri_ ,” says Arno with an amused, if somewhat wary, smirk. “We agreed I had a reputation – a _false_ accusation, by the way – but never that you weren’t interested.”

You blink as his words wash over you. Finally, quieter than before and humbler, you say, “I thought I hinted enough. I wasn’t aware you were one of _those_ people who needed everything to be spelt out for you to understand when you’re not welcome.”

“Ouch, _chéri_ ,” he says, “you wound me!” He pauses; there’s a breath of silence between you as you wait for him to speak again. He says finally, “Message received.”

And _boy_ do you feel _bad_.

He starts to gather his things, slower than you think is necessary, and guilt pricks at your insides. There’s an apology on your lips as you lower the lid of your laptop; there’s no way you can focus on your assignment now, not after everything.

“Hey, wait,” you start, and Arno hesitates, bag on his shoulder and his jacket in his hand. “Look, I’m sorry, that –“

“No need to apologise, _chéri_ ,” he says ( _way to make you feel worse, ugh, he’s too nice it’s not fair_ ), “you need to focus.”

“Is there some way for me to make it up to you?” you ask, not thinking about your words in the slightest. “Let me buy you a coffee?”

He nods and sits, making himself comfortable as you get the attention of the waitress once more. You close your laptop and set it aside, piling your books on top of it and deciding that the _least_ you can do is give Arno your full attention.

The questions fly between the two of you, followed with jokes and witty comments, and you learn that Arno lives with an adoptive family – the de la Serre’s and you _know_ that name as well. He tells you he fences and writes but that he’s not sure what career he wants to pursue yet.

It’s not until he foots the bill that you realise he’s tricked you into going on a date with him.


	6. Apprentice [Arno Dorian]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Oh,” you retort, and you shrug your shoulders as best you can. “Ah, yes. You’ll be waiting a long time then. I’m a nobody. Really.”_

You’ll swear it until your dying day: _none of this is your fault_.

There’s four or five of them, stalking the length of the cold room, peering into the dark tunnels for anything suspicious. You tug on the rough ropes binding you to the chair, hating the helplessness that has set in, and _cursing_ Gabriel’s name. Why had you let yourself be convinced by him? Why had you let him talk you into this ridiculous scheme?

More importantly, _why_ had you told him to run? _Why_ had you thought you were the better choice to hold them off? _Why_ hadn’t _you_ escaped and left _him_?

Another helpless groan threatens to leave your lips; Arno is going to _kill_ you.

(If these guys don’t get there first.)

Seriously, you’re starting to think Gabriel did this on _purpose_ – revenge, you start to consider, because Arno chose you as his student and not him. It’s not like it’s _your_ fault your Mentor _saw_ something in you. It’s not like _you_ threw yourself at Arno Dorian’s feet and _begged_ him to teach you.

You’ve heard the mutters about your Mentor, after all, heard the stories the other recruits whispered behind their hands when word began to spread that Arno Dorian – _Arno Dorian_! – was looking for an apprentice. You really _were_ content lingering in the shadows and being taught at the same pace as everyone else. You _really_ would have been content if he’d chosen someone else.

But instead his eyes had found you, hugging the wall and looking anywhere but at him, and you’ve had to shoulder stupidly high expectations ever since.

There’s grumblings and mutterings from the men around you – you watch one as he adjusts his red waistcoat, loosens and reties the black ascot around his neck – and though you know it’s useless, you wriggle your hands against the rough ropes binding you to the chair.

How long has it been, hours? Has Gabriel even made it back to the Brotherhood? Is Arno even there? Has Gabriel even bothered to tell your Mentor that you’re alive? Is Gabriel even aware that you’re alive?

Your mind has gone completely blank of all the lessons your Mentor has taught you; you’re pretty sure one of those lessons is _don’t panic_.

(You’re _not_.)

(Yet.)

You eye the men again, biting your lip and clenching and unclenching your hands into fists, and it’s not until one of them starts to reach for the cutlass at his side that your stomach starts to churn. You decide then that you’re not going to keep waiting for your Mentor, not when you’re not sure how long you’re going to be waiting _for_.

Thinking optimistically, Arno is probably on his way to you right now; he’s told you frequently about the gift he has, the _vision_ , and if anyone can find you, it’s him.

Thinking pessimistically, Gabriel probably hasn’t even _reached_ the Café Théâtre yet, and perhaps he won’t even bother to, which means you have to prepare for the very real possibility that you are _on your own_ here.

Thinking realistically, you know Gabriel is loyal to the Brotherhood and every one of its assassins; he’s waylaid or injured or lost but nonetheless on your side and trying to find you Mentor. But time is not something you have right now, judging by the merciless look being sent your way.

You can't reach the catch on your hidden blade, which means freeing yourself of the ropes is not an option. With your wrists and ankles bound tightly to the chair, it leaves only one other way…

“He’s not coming,” mutters one of the men, leaning against the stone wall and staring into the dark tunnel.

Another draws his cutlass; Black Ascot you’re going to call him, and the length of fabric is knotted terribly. He smirks cruelly at you. “How about that?” he muses.

You feign nonchalance. “Am I supposed to know who’s coming to get me?”

Black Ascot advances, his lips still twisted into that evil smirk, revealing crooked and blackened teeth. “Dorian,” he hisses, coming closer. “We’ve seen the two of you together.”

“ _Oh_ ,” you retort, and you shrug your shoulders as best you can. “Ah, yes. You’ll be waiting a long time then. I’m a nobody. _Really_.”

“Not according to what we’ve heard,” pipes up another voice, over your shoulder and out of your sight. “You’re his _student_.”

“That doesn’t make me _special_ ,” you say snidely and the lie doesn’t leave your lips easily. “He has _lots_ of students.”

This brings a pause to the conversation, a few nervous looks, a crueller smirk. Black Ascot leans forward, coming into your space, large, beefy hands clamped around your forearms as his awful breath fans across your cheeks. You wrinkle your nose and try to lean away from him, as far as you can while being bound to this chair.

“Well then,” he says, and you’ve decided what to do within seconds, “looks like you’ve just outlived your usefulness.”

You launch yourself forward, your forehead connecting solidly with Ascot’s nose, and, _Jesus_ , no one ever tells you just how much that fucking _hurts_. You’re tempted to believe it hurt you more than it did him but by the raging howl that erupts from Ascot’s lips, you know it would be a lie.

He clutches his bleeding and broken nose, his fingers stained with red, and over his shoulder a dark figure launches out from the dark, catching one of the men around the neck and slicing quickly across his throat.

 _What a relief_ , you think, but it’s short lived.

Your vision whites out for a second as his fists connects with your cheek. Your head snaps to the side and you blink dazedly; you bite your tongue in the middle of it all and the coppery fluid floods your mouth. You spit at him, provoking him more than necessary, feeling bolder knowing that your Mentor is near, and Ascot roars, drawing his fist back for another blow –

“Now, I think that’s enough of that,” says Arno Dorian over his shoulder, his hand clutching Ascot’s forearm and stilling his movements, the other pressed against his back, his hidden blade embedded deep in the beefy man’s flesh.

Ascot’s body hasn’t even hit the floor before words are tumbling out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mentor,” you blurt, straining forward in your chair as Arno easily slices through the ropes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear.”

“No one ever does,” he replies casually, “but even still, I think you should stay away from cocky thinks-they-know-it-all’s until further notice.”

As soon as your hands are free, you gingerly press at your cheek, wincing at the feel of the large bruise. Arno swats your hands away, intently studying the mark himself in the dull firelight around you. He inhales through his teeth, thick brows pressed together in a frown, and you can’t read him; is he disappointed in you?

“You’re not a nobody,” he says after a moment, stepping back and appearing satisfied with his perusal. “You’ll survive.”

“After a few stiff drinks, definitely,” you agree, rolling your shoulders to work out the stiffness. “I am never listening to Gabriel again.”

“I second that,” Arno says, and you can hear the anger lacing his words. “You’ll be on recon missions for a _year_ if I hear you’ve been caught up in one of his schemes again.”

Sufficiently cowed with that threat, you follow Arno silently through the tunnels, imagining already the nice hot bath you’re going to have drawn up for you when you return to the Café. You can practically feel the hot water on your skin already, can almost see the steam rising from the tub, and the _calm_ –

“Come on,” Arno says, leading you further into the city. “There’s something else we need to do.”

“But –“

He shoots you a warning look. “Do you really think you’re in any position to argue?”

“No, Mentor.”

Looks like that bath will have to wait.

“We have a target,” he explains after a moment.

Looks like that bath will have to wait a _while_.


	7. Haunted [Arno Dorian]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They do say the place is haunted.” The words are said around a grin. “The ghost of a man searching the halls for his lost love.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halloween '16 fic and _extremely_ AU! I initially wasn't going to post these!

You find the sound of smashing glass unbearably loud but your friends are laughing and unconcerned.

“No one comes around here anymore,” they tell you with a shrug and a giggle. “The place has been abandoned for decades.”

You try to imagine the Café Théâtre in its prime, with people sitting at the round tables and in the booths, performers on the stage, acting and singing. You try to imagine the halls alive with people, staff and patrons alike, but there’s so much dust and dirt that you can hardly see anything past its misuse.

“What happened here?” you wonder aloud, stopping at the foot of the grand staircase, peering up. The bannister is cold under your hand, smooth wood that you think might have been polished back in its day.

“No one knows,” says one of your friends, standing at your shoulder and staring at the first floor with you. “Bet they’d do _amazing_ coffee if they were still open though.”

“Yeah,” you murmur noncommittally, frowning.

For a second there, you were _sure_ you saw someone.

“Come on, come _on_ ,” is sang at you, and hands are clapped together excitedly as grins are shared, and a single candle is lit. You eye the ouija board sceptically, wary and doubtful and knowing that shit like this is not supposed to be messed with.

“Come on,” they tell you. They look disappointed. “Don’t be a wimp.”

But you _are_ , you totally _are_.

“You’re not supposed to mess with these kinda things,” you say, holding back your hand as the others place their fingers on the pointer in the centre of the board.

“We’re not messing around,” is thrown back. “We’re here to ask the serious questions.”

“Sure,” you reply sceptically. A cold shiver runs down your spine and you look over your shoulder, half-expecting to see someone there. “Jeez, is it cold in here?”

“They do say the place is haunted.” The words are said around a grin. “The ghost of a man searching the halls for his lost love.”

“Bullshit,” you mutter, but you recall the figure at the top of the stairs, the one you’re _sure_ you saw, and the cold feeling that’s seeping into your bones. “I’m not doing this.”

Their shouts and insults follow you as you stride from the café and into the hall, something drawing you closer to the stairs and pulling you to ascend them. It’s just as dark upstairs as it is in the main café, wooden boards blocking out the light and covering the floor to ceilings windows. Balcony doors are locked and boarded up; every step you take disturbs the dust that coats the floor and furniture.

You tug your phone out from your pocket and switch on the flashlight.

You’re still cold – _freezing_ , actually – and you’re sure you’re crazy for thinking it but it seems to get warmer the further down the hall you walk. There’s a door ajar at the end, drawing your eye, drawing your attention, and it moves soundlessly as you push it open.

The room is empty of furniture and dark like the rest of the café, windows and doors boarded up so you cannot see what _must_ be a spectacular view of Paris. Looking around you, you start to picture what it might’ve looked like – an armchair by the balcony with a coffee table next to it; a bed in the corner; a bath opposite; a bookcase behind the door.

“Finally some company.”

The shriek you let out is embarrassing, you’re not ashamed to admit, and the ghost cringes. He stands near where you imagined the bed would be, looking quite ashamed of scaring you, and you stand in silence for a few minutes, catching your breath.

He’s dressed strangely, in a coat of navy blue with a peaked hood, brown hair tied at the nape of his neck. There’s a red ascot around his neck and a pin you think might be from the French Revolution on his chest – and he’s armed.

You know he can’t hurt you – he’s a _ghost_ – but the sight of the sabre at his side and the pistol holstered on his hip makes you nervous.

(At least you’re _fairly_ certain he can’t hurt you.)

( _Can he_?)

“My apologies for startling you, _chéri_ ,” he says and he does sound genuine. “It was not my intention.”

You want to laugh – a ghost, apologising for scaring you? It’s bizarre.

“Er, yeah,” you mumble, eyeing the open door. It swings shut seconds later. “No problem.”

“I’m grateful you’re here,” he continues, moving forward – he walks, you note, but there’s something about the lack of footsteps, the lack of _anything_ really, that has you stepping away. “Truly, I am, but why _are_ you here?”

“You don’t get many visitors then?”

The ghost scoffs. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a single conversation? Two hundred _years_.”

“Is that when your love died?”

The ghost frowns; you watch his lips as he repeats the words, perplexed. Then he sighs, an irritated look crossing his features.

“I’m going to kill whoever came up with that ridiculous story,” he fumes. He’s closer to you now, almost seeming to tower over you with his height. “Everything I did in my life and I’m thought of as the ghost who haunts his Café in search of his _love_ … _Incroyable_.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him honestly and then, realising what he said, “ _Wait_. _Your_ café? You owned this place?”

“ _Oui_ ,” he says, a touch proudly. “Though is saddens me to see it in such disrepair.” He thrusts his hand out, expectant, and you’re surprised and afraid to realise you can grasp it. His hands are cold, his handshake firm, and his eyes are gentle. “Arno Dorian.”


	8. Out There [Arno Dorian]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…life is not a spectator sport. if watching is all you’re gonna do, you’re gonna watch your life go by without you.” Laverne, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-fulfilment lol

‘They told me there is a monster, lurking, in the parapets of the cathedral,’ says Arno to you. He is smirking, his face turned boyish with it; the late evening sunset casts a warm orange glow over the two of you where you sit, perched, upon the stone railing. 

‘There is,’ you say, confused. 

A slight shift of your body; the wings upon your back, twice your arm span and sleek and turned grey with the dust and dark. Arno’s eyes flit to them and his smirks flattens and turns thin. You wonder if you’ve misinterpreted his words again, as you’ve often done since your secret friendship began - he jokes with you but they fall flat with your limited education of the world without the stone walls of Notre Dame. Your wings flutter with your nerves, bristling with anxious energy. 

‘Surely not,’ he says. The wind disturbs his neatly put together visage, ruffling his ascot and his dark hair. ‘You would have put it away.’ 

You tilt your head, frowning. ‘Do you… Are you telling a joke?’

‘No.’ He is equally as perplexed now. ‘Are you?’

‘No. Who’s “they”? Why are they sending you after a…  _monster_?’ 

Arno does not answer your questions. He watches your wings again, watches you stretch them and shake out the feathers. 

‘You do not get out much at all, do you?’ He says eventually, as you sprinkle dust and dirt along the stone behind you.

‘More, now,’ you admit. ‘Now that you’re here.’ 

‘Have you never… Are you not  _curious_ , at least?’ 

 _Yes, always_ , you nearly blurt.  _It’s not enough to stand upon the balconies and watch from on high. It’s not enough to hide within the clouds when I could be down there, when I could have my feet on the ground. It’ll never be enough_. 

‘No,’ you lie instead, looking to the horizon and the city, the beautiful, glowing city of Paris and her people, dancing in the sunset, spinning and laughing and  _living_. ‘Not really.’ 

‘I find that… incredibly disturbing,’ Arno admits sadly. ‘A real bird in a cage, aren’t you?’

‘You say that like I can’t just…  _fly away_ , whenever I please.’ Something about his words has set you bristling with anger, brows drawn tightly together as you consider his hurtful, truthful words.

‘Why don’t you?’ He asks.

 _Fear_. 

The towers you call your home will never be enough but you don’t dare betray your Master’s kindness, his sacrifices, by defying his word. He has done so much for you, protected you from so much - the world is cruel and wicked and they will not understand you, they will never understand you. Best you stay here, high in the bell towers where no one can find and hurt you. 

And he would be so upset with you, so disappointed, and his words can cut as deep as knives when he is angry, hurt and sting for longer than any wound.

‘This is my home,’ you tell Arno, as your fog-grey wings shift upon your back. He watches them with wonder and fascination in his eyes, so very different from the horror and disgust in the eyes of the other who knows you.

‘A lonely home, indeed,’ he says at last. 

‘It’s not so bad.’ You pause, and your fingers seek your feathers, fidgeting through them, soothing them. ‘It’s quiet.’

‘ _Too_  quiet?’ 

You lick your lips, face ducked against your wing as you feel yourself backed into a corner.

‘Sometimes,’ you admit. 

There’s a moment of silence; you look over the crook of your wing to see Arno watching you, pondering and puzzling, an odd expression contorting his features in softness. 

‘You have… You’ve never left this tower, have you?’ he asks at last. 

You look away, unable to meet those eyes, so sad on your behalf, so unhappy with the cards life has dealt to you. Your wings droop, feathers brushing along the stone;  _we can’t all be so lucky as you_ , you want to say. Instead…

You shake your head mutely. 

A sharp intake of breath.

‘It’s better this way,’ you insist, words tumbling out of your mouth in harried desperation. You can’t bear for him to look at you this way, so searching. ‘I don’t belong out there.’ 

‘What?’ he asks it softly, but there’s an underlying fury in his words that scares you. ‘Why in the world would you believe that? Who would convince you of such a thing?’

‘I… There is no one else who  _looks_  like me! I’m… Surely you  _know_  I’m a…’ 

Horrified, Arno reaches the conclusion you have waited for him to reach since your meeting. 

‘A monster.’


End file.
